


Here Comes the Birthday Boy

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Series: That (In)Human Connection [3]
Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: AFAB Main Character, AFAB reader - Freeform, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cosplay, Cunnilingus, Default name MC, F/M, M/M, Multi, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Yuki the name is Yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: Asmodeus has always wanted to have sex with himself. Hopefully this is the next best thing.Yuki and Solomon dress up as the birthday boy.
Relationships: Asmodeus (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Asmodeus/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Asmodeus/Main Character/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Asmodeus/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Series: That (In)Human Connection [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731373
Comments: 9
Kudos: 101





	Here Comes the Birthday Boy

Solomon pinches fabric between two fingers, studying it with surprising gravity. It shimmers in the light, satin smooth.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” you say, preening. “Just like the real thing.”

“ _Nothing’s_ like the real thing.”

“Well,” you start, unable to dismiss the point but still deflating at the truth of it, “a close second then.”

He chuckles at your clear disappointment, runs a hand just lightly under the hem of your shirt. “It would have to be. I’m afraid it would be impossible to fulfill his _actual_ fantasy.”

“Hmm. Wouldn’t that be something, though?” You pause, prop your chin in one hand as you let a reel of lascivious images flicker to life in your mind’s eye. Warmth flushes, bleeds a straight line from your imagination into your core and you shiver pleasantly. “Do you think he’d let us watch?”

Solomon’s grin is wry as his eyes track your quickening breath, the way you squirm in your seat, driving your own arousal higher and hotter with your inventive speculation. “Oh, I’m sure we’d be invited to participate.”

He crooks a single finger in the waistband of your skirt and stills, keeping his touch direct to skin, unmoving. Your stomach flexes against it and you let out a long, slow breath. You meet his gaze under lowered lashes. “We _do_ still have to get changed.”

“Very true.” He dips another finger below the band. Pauses. “But wouldn’t Asmo be upset if we had too much fun without him?”

“Well,” you start. You’re motionless, a statue, waiting. You lick your lips and he tilts his head, regarding you casually. It’s a short purgatory; the brief period before the role of predator and prey are decided. “We’ll just have to make sure we don’t have _too_ much fun.”

“Do you think you can manage that?”

You curl your fingers around his wrist, press lightly beneath the cuff of his sweater. Trail upwards, following the clean line of his ulna. He tenses, just slightly, under the teasing motions. “I’ll certainly do my _best_.”

Then you _grab_ , grip tight against his elbow, drag him into you in a clumsy, eager jerk. He goes willingly, controls the motion enough not to bump into you as you laugh against his mouth. The sigh he releases is contrived; the manufactured air of being egregiously put-upon.

But he steals your breath like he’s drowning.

You flick the edges of his cape off his shoulder, swipe the dangling ornaments so that the whole thing drops heavy to the floor. He retaliates with clever fingers at the boundary of your shirt, working quickly to divest you. You barely feel the chill of the room before his mouth is pressed against the sharp edge of your newly uncovered collarbone. The lightest scrape of teeth and you’re shivering underneath him.

You wind your hands in his hair, massage his scalp with short nails and keep him firm against your skin. His lips trail down, feel the heartbeats at your breast before he nips gently at the soft swell of flesh. You croon softly against his crown. “If you leave marks he’s going to be jealous.”

“Mm. But then he starts to _bite_.”

You wind your hand into silver strands and pull him off your chest. He goes easily, the clean white expanse of his throat bared and inviting. You lean in, drag your teeth along the muscle and sigh into his pulse. “As much fun as that is, let’s not be selfish. It is _his_ birthday after all.”

He sighs. “I believe that’s actually tomorrow.”

You reach down, place your hands on the flat planes of his stomach. Searching fingers move steadily south, and then you’re pulling his sweater up and over his head, forcing space between you. You let go halfway through, his face obscured under cashmere-soft black.

There’s a huff heavily muffled by fabric. “Don’t be petty.”

You roll your eyes, snapping the button on his pants while his arms are still caged. He wiggles in place, trying to free himself as you pull the zipper down, run your index lightly over the growing bulge in his underwear. “I don’t want to hear that from _you_.”

You slide off the edge of Asmo’s bed, worm one hand down the back of his open pants to palm the delicious curve of his ass. Press a kiss to one nipple and _suck_ briefly, wedge a leg between his, hook the back of one ankle and pull. He falls and you spin with the momentum, leaving him breathless, back to the blankets.

You slide your palm over his hip, digging into the curve of his pelvis before you cup him through his briefs. Then you stand, lean over him and take your free hand, trace the edge of his profile through his sweater. Your fingers linger at his mouth, outlining the curves, sinful but silent. You fold, press a kiss against the contours.

Something wet damps the fabric. You jerk back and he sits up, grabbing fistfuls of black and pulling the entire thing over his head. Blue-yellow eyes spark beneath the mess of his silver hair.

He throws his arms around your waist, snaps you onto his lap. You stumble, awkwardly slap your hands over his shoulders and shift your leg around his hip so you don’t knee him. The flat heat of his palm wanders up your back before he reaches your bra, snapping it open. The straps drop along your arms, cups falling against his chest. He pulls it down, and you remove your hands so he can take it, toss it in the direction of Asmo’s dresser. There’s the light sound of clattering glass. You purse your lips, turn to look and he takes your distraction, descends on your breasts with a soft touch and coy tongue.

A gasp slips out. You press your hands firm against his nape, scratching lightly, and circle your pelvis against him. He jerks upwards.

“When will he be here?”

You hum, feel the press of him directly below your centre and _rock_. The damp material between you provides imperfect friction and you huff against his hair. “Half an hour? He went out to get his nails done about five.”

“Oh he’s _out_.” He flicks the zipper pull at the side of your skirt. “We have plenty of time.”

“Only a little. I told him I have a surprise for him when he comes back.”

He pulls back to look at you. “So he’ll be back any second.”

“Well I wanted to make sure he’d return _tonight_. It was hard enough just sneaking you into the house.” You shove hard against his shoulders and he lets you lay him flat. You _slide_ off his lap, hook your hands into the waistband of his pants. He lifts his legs just enough to allow you to strip him naked.

Propped up on his elbows, stretched out and relaxed, erection bobbing at your eye level as you begin to straighten . . . You lick your lips and try to ignore the memory of his taste. You’re moving forwards before you realize: pure instinct. His legs widen, accommodating, caging you in with the lean muscle of his thighs. Your hands lie flat on either side of his cock. He doesn’t move, watching impassively and fingering the silk edges of a nearby fabric rose.

You clear your throat thickly. “We should get dressed.”

“You don’t think he’d be just as happy having us ready and waiting on his bed?”

“No.” You pout, the expression undercut by the way you circle gently at his base. “And it was _so hard_ to get the references for these outfits!”

He makes a face at you, and you’re certain he would snort if he didn’t dislike the noise. “I was there. I’m sure it was a _trial_ for you, asking him if his horns were particularly _sensitive_ while you were riding him.”

“I remember,” you sniff. “The preparations were intensive when I told you I wanted to have sex while in his demon form.”

“Then you also recall that I told you we didn’t have to be fucking him to see it.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh like you were so inconvenienced when you were running your hands all over his wings. You barely let go of them.”

He shrugs. “They were smooth.”

“We’re lucky I remembered to take pictures at all.”

“Actually I think it would have been disappointing for you to forget. It was your idea.”

“Well,” you say, rubbing your thumb against his leaking tip, “I can’t help it if I was a little . . . _distracted_.”

Solomon’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscles in his stomach shudder, just once. He leans up and you’re forced backwards. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wear underwear underneath? I’d hate for these to stain.”

“No. The clothes are one thing, we don’t need extra layers.” Your hands twitch, and you mournfully restrain yourself from touching him again. Instead you stand, undoing the zipper at your side. “Although if you’re worried about staining, maybe you could . . . enchant them?”

He huffs, clear irritation. “Don’t you think that’s something you could have told me you wanted _before_ I came over?”

“Well I didn’t think of it!” You cross your arms petulantly, stepping out of the skirt pooled at your feet. “Fine, if you can’t do it I’ll just pay for the cleaning bill. Okay?”

“Well I certainly don’t know a spell like that off the top of my head.” He reaches for your hips, slipping over the curve and pushing your panties down with them. You don’t make any move to lift your feet. There’s the briefest tickle of hair, strands shifting against your thighs, and then he’s looking up at you. Folded over like this his breath ghosts across your crotch, and he presses a soft kiss to the skin between your legs.

Heat flares and you do your best to ignore the urgent burn of it. You lift your legs, one at a time, and while he’s sliding the satin fabric off he takes your hovering ankle, glides smoothly up your calf and props your leg over his shoulder. His knees meet the carpet as his mouth kisses your slick desire. You moan, thread your fingers through silver silk and press greedy against him.

The first pass of his tongue pulls the breath from your throat, a wisp. You _want_. Lust was already thrumming in you, the mere promise of what you were about to do setting excitement trembling in your veins. Having him here, close and naked and _tempting_ —

You realize, belatedly, that getting dressed together was a terrible idea.

He licks against your clit with cruel attention. Your hips buck, desperate to increase the contact. One hand wanders up the inside of your thigh, cups below the firm sphere of your ass and squeezes. A teasing chase — just barely not enough. Sparks that never resolve into full, flaming light.

You have to . . . you’re supposed to be doing something. You glance at the intricate costumes laying on the bed and feel the barest echo of a thought. You’re supposed to be. . . getting dressed.

“Solomon,” you start, but your voice is air, high and needy. He pulls off you and you whimper, feel yourself on the wrong side of your threshold, legs trembling. A fire stoked but never catching. You bow at the waist, his hands firm against you, sturdy support as he shifts to standing. He holds you close, strokes your head gently as you choke off a whine. His head dips to your ear, voice soft.

“Do you need help getting into your pants?”

You raise a fist and punch him unflinchingly on the shoulder.

“Should I take that as a no?”

You take a shaky seat and _glower_ at him, grabbing the garment from beside you. Shake the legs out, check the label and pretend you don’t notice the insistent need still throbbing between your legs. The trembling in your right foot slows the process, sticking through the open holes while Solomon watches. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

He wipes slick from his face. “How much longer until Asmodeus is back, again?”

“Fine!” You bite out, incensed. “Help me!”

“That’s a _terrible_ way to ask for a favour.”

“This is your fault! Take some responsibility!”

He only smiles. “I’ll make an exception just this once.”

Lowering to one knee, he takes your right leg, draws the pant carefully over your pointed foot. He presses a kiss to your shin as it appears through the gaps. You frown, attempt to pull the pants up over your hips with some degree of grace and _quake_ when the crotch comes in contact with your aching, gushing lips. You flop dramatically backwards, hands pressed to your face.

“Are you alright, hecatomb?” The sentiment is tainted with the edge of laughter and you kick weakly. Your foot does not connect.

“I hate you,” you murmur dishonestly.

“Well that’s going to make the rest of this night pretty uncomfortable.”

You throw his clothes at him. “Get dressed!”

He actually does loose a chuckle, catching the items easily. You watch as he shimmies carefully into the pants with much less trouble. And doesn’t zip them.

You reach behind you and grab your shirt, buttoning yourself in tandem with the infuriating sorcerer. Black folds of satin adorned with silk roses, a long metal scorpion winding around the garment. The strange chain insect presents a challenge: you bow your head, trying to tug the collar far enough out that you can fasten it.

There’s a quick movement; slender white fingers take the fasteners from you, securing it with sure motions. “Thank you.”

A pressure against your temple, the idea of a kiss. “I wouldn’t let you disappoint Asmo like that.”

Irritation wars with affection and you sigh, lean forwards and lick the heavy drop of pre-cum from his cock. You want to wrap your lips around him, grab his ass and _push_ him into your mouth— 

He gasps, watches as your tongue curls wet along his length. “Patience never was your strong suit. But don’t forget, we’re not done yet.”

He steps forwards, forcing you back, crawling over you to straddle on Asmo’s increasingly rumpled silks. You take him to the base, swallowing for suction. Your hands pass over his hips, the join of his thighs, hold him in place as you bob. He curls, slightly, the faintest flex of his spine as you work him in a steady rhythm.

He unlatches your left arm. His fingers find yours, curl into the soft well of your palm before he moves to your wrist and jerks the limb flat and to the side. He _bows_ over you, twisting, pushes himself deeper into your throat and tears are pricking your eyes, _choking_ at the imposition. _Delighted_.

Your suction breaks, and you lave attention with your tongue, spit dripping down your chin. Your arm is trembling.

He takes it in a vise grip, holds you tight to the mattress. The pressure of his fingers is admonishing and firm and you find your breath, suck harder, whimpering. “If you don’t hold still they won’t look right.”

There’s a heat along your deltoid, moving down your bicep, below the inside of your elbow. You stretch out, popping loudly off his cock and enjoying the tight breath he releases as you admire his handiwork. The clean, perfectly even hearts, black outlined with red.

His hands find your hair, and for a moment you think he’s going to take your mouth with welcome force. Instead there’s a strange tingling as he rubs two circles just above your ears, releases you to follow the motion, fluttering in the space overhead. You clear your throat, and your voice comes out rough. “Should I turn over on my stomach?”

There’s a satisfied sound somewhere in his chest, eyes raking over the mess of your face.“Please.”

He repeats the motion, marking four points instead. It’s like a controlled whirl of air, captured and directed and hovering just over your back. When he’s done, his fingers ghost at a point above your shoulders and you feel the memory of a touch. You struggle into sitting and he loops an arm around you, brings you up, flush against his chest.

“How do I look?”

“Flawless,” he says, smiling without a hint of irony. You frown, touch pads against the moisture on your face, tears and saliva and probably a long smear of lipstick. More fool you, for doing your makeup first.

Solomon reaches out to the side, grabs the plush box of 6-ply tissues that Asmo keeps well-stocked. The cleaning swipes he makes are careful on your skin. "Well. Passable.”

That means you’re fine. You turn, admiring his illusions in one of Asmo’s many, _many_ full-length mirrors. Unfold to standing and walk closer. You pass your hands overhead, right where Solomon has meticulously reproduced the lust demon’s horns. You will give him this: his work _is_ flawless.

You’re allowed another wondering look so you can appreciate the wings hovering over you, re-apply your lipstick, fix your hair, before he edges you out of the space. He doesn’t say a word, going to work immediately on his own accoutrements.

You toe your feet into monk-strapped oxfords, fasten the absurd cuffs on your wrists. When you turn he’s already done.

“What do you think?”

“Flawless,” you parrot. It doesn’t suit him _at all_ , but the craftsmanship is beyond reproach.

Besides, his quiet confidence will carry it off.

A sigh, long-suffering, and he grabs the remaining cuffs. He maneuvers them awkwardly on as you kneel, help him step into the shoes.

His eyes warm, amber and lightning. You can feel him staring, know he loves the way you look beneath him. Beside him. Above him. You wet your lips as you look up, feel him hard and tapping lightly against your face.

“No,” you say, firm and regretful. “We always get started without him, we have to wait. _Especially_ today.” You cast one last look at his stiff, twitching cock and pout. “Can you tuck yourself into those pants?”

He frowns down at you. “Should I?”

“Please. You know how much Asmo loves to unwrap a present.”

He sighs but flops backwards on the bedspread, carefully positioning his erection before closing the pants slowly, _slowly_ over his hips. You follow the motion wistfully as he tucks himself in.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” he says, amused. “I’m sure I won’t be decent for long.”

You fidget in place, turning your head away. “I wish Asmo was back! We’ve been waiting forever.”

“There are lots of more pleasant ways to wait,” he says, ignoring the falseness of your statement.

He threads his arms through yours. He may not have demon strength but he isn’t weak by any measure, and you let yourself be pulled easily into his lap. The shirt is too busy so you drape your triceps over his shoulders and settle.

“And what now, mighty sorcerer?”

He grins insouciant into your face. Magical bastard. “ _Now_ , hecatomb, we wait.”

You roll your hips like a petty hypocrite. Feel the thickness of him, the seam of your pants _pressing_ against your still-eager clit. His smile remains pleasantly bland but his eyes flash. Hot palms land at your waist, deceptively light, only a suggestion to your motion.

“I could kiss you,” you breathe against his lips, “if you made my lipstick smear-proof.”

He laughs. “I would _never_. You know that’s half the fun.”

You rut petulantly against him, chase the full drag of friction. It’s not enough. “Should I call him?”

“If he could hear how _desperate_ you sound right now, I’m sure he’d come running.”

You’re making a mess of his hair. Fingers twist the shining threads as you draw him in, knock his forehead against your own. “Is that a yes?”

“But your phone is so far away,” he says reasonably. You feel sharp pressure as he latches tighter, digs into the flesh above your pelvis. Urgency accelerates your movement, linen damp between your thighs. He leans forwards, brushes kisses against your jaw. “Why don’t we play a game instead?”

“Games with you are dangerous.”

“Oh?”

You hesitate, but your arousal is making it hard to focus. “I always feel like you’ve won, no matter what the outcome.”

“Why play games that you can’t win?”

“Where’s the fun without the risk?” you counter.

He nips lightly and your hips stutter. “So you won’t even hear me out?”

“. . . I didn’t say that.”

He noses against your cheek, smiling. You can feel the curve of it against your skin. “Why don’t you tell me what you would do if Asmodeus was in here with us, right now?”

You groan, rocking with renewed fervour. “I would _tear_ his clothes apart, even if I had to buy him a full new designer set.”

His mouth moves, gliding down your neck. You feel the breath of a laugh.

“I would take every inch of his pretty, pretty cock and _savour_ the taste of him, suck him dry and aching and swallow every last, delicious drop. _Solomon_ , I _want_ —”

There’s a flash, a puff of potpourri like sandalwood and roses overlaying the lightest splash of acetone. You whirl, forcing his mouth to come unglued from your pulse.

Asmodeus is _shimmering_ in the doorway, brilliant and beautiful and floating in a heavy perfume of pheromones; horns and wings on full display. Pink eyes are searchlights; bright and arresting with it. You drink in the sight of him, ravenous.

“Asmodeus!” The name comes out a reverent, pleading prayer, every syllable gasoline-soaked in desire. 

He shivers — you can see it from your position on the bed, a full-body tremor that makes you _weak_ with anticipation. “What a delightful surprise.” The words are signboards for his lust, staggering in scale and blinding. You watch as he takes a long breath, forcing himself into stillness. You can see the muscle flexing in his arms.

You’re going to ask him what he’s doing when he pulls out his D.D.D. and takes a picture. Two. Five. Ten. The second you part your lips, expose the soft pink of your tongue he’s tossing it, _descending_ before you can even form the articulated beginnings of a thought.

The kiss he presses against you is _hungry_ , and the question of predator and prey is overwhelmingly decided.

Your spine is twisted, serpentine, as you reach for him. It’s muscle memory — his lips on yours and your fingers are itching, eager to feel the silk of his skin against your own. It’s only the second, third time that you’re been able to get your hands on him like this, run a teasing line up his ridged horns. He moans into your mouth, an appreciative melody.

Your hips go cold. Solomon’s released you, hands going nimbly to the demon’s belt, eager not to waste a single second. Distantly you can hear the _click_ as the complicated buckle is released, but you refuse to let him go. Instead you lick into his mouth, a swift press against his palate so you can enjoy the way he clutches at your hair. 

“Oh!”

The two of you exclaim in unison as Solomon shifts, sloppy, displaces the both of you in his impatience. Asmo falls backwards, cushioned by the sheer, absurd _volume_ of his duvet(s) as you’re deposited indifferently on the floor. You pout up at the sorcerer, slap his shin as you crawl towards your demon.

You’re at the perfect vantage to take his right leg, lift it slightly so you can press kisses against every pane of exposed flesh visible through the gaps; a shameless imitation of Solomon’s earlier affection. When you reach the top of his thigh you edge beneath the fabric, let your fingers skirt over the join between leg and pelvis. He jumps slightly underneath you — your only indication, as his face is being blocked with a very heated kiss.

You press your mouth against his still-covered tumescence, wet and open, and he bucks slightly up. Laugh and toy with the zipper.

“Happy birthday.”

“My. Birthday,” he mumbles, messy, between kisses. “Is. Tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow you’ll be busy,” you say, practical. You could hear the edge of hurt in his voice, and you won’t let it stand. “It’s a Friday, after all, and we aren’t so selfish we’d keep the most amorous demon from going out and being admired. Besides, the guest does have to make an appearance at his own parties.”

“Happy _early_ birthday,” Solomon manages, struggling with the demon’s shirt. You can hear the metal shaking as he fumbles, desperate to have it undone.

You can understand the compulsion. The zipper comes down and then you’re pulling at his pants, hands feather light and loving. He springs free, ready, and the sight of him makes you pause, mouth watering. You lean in, lick a stripe all the way to his tip, _suck_ the delicious pre-cum off and savour the taste.

Then move back. Circle around his erection without ever touching; trail your fingers, kiss and nibble. You can see him twitching from the corner of your eye and you hum, pleased.

Solomon has worked the demon’s shirt open, has the scorpion half-draped along the bed. He swings his leg over, cuts off your view with the admittedly savoury curve of his ass. You reach up and pinch in half-hearted retaliation. He only shifts backwards, lets Asmo’s cock bounce against his back.

You kneel, take Solomon’s hips in both hands and hold him as you lick up Asmo’s length, wet against both his skin and the fabric of the sorcerer’s costume. He bucks and you’re both holding him, firm, between the two of you.

Asmodeus is wiggling beneath you. His legs are moving, either side, hips determined beneath Solomon’s weight. The sorcerer must have trapped his hands.

You dig into his waistband, _yank_ down so you can press a kiss to the dimple in his back. Solomon chokes as the front of his pants presses against his already uncomfortable erection. 

“Maybe you should let Asmo help you,” you say innocently, before your refasten yourself on the demon.

He releases a sigh, reaches blindly backwards and pushes you down so that you can feel Asmo at the back of your throat. The _snap_ of the buckle and the immediate run of the zipper are slightly muffled as you gag. 

“ _Ah!_ ” Solomon arches backwards over you. Slurping, sucking, wet noises fill the air as you and your demon work in tandem. The salty taste of pre-cum mixed with skin, the delicious throbbing against your tongue. You could lose yourself in the sensation, the heady, exquisite concentration of him. You suck him in deeper, farther, and—

There’s a damp _pop!_ as Solomon pulls out, a brief whine as Asmo’s mouth is emptied. Your haze clears and you lean back, gift one last, _long_ drag to that delicious cock.

Asmodeus leans up on his elbows, looking thoroughly debauched. Hair a mess, spit and your lipstick smeared on his chin, flushed and panting and betrayed. He’s half dressed, shirt wide open and pants half-dropped, the expanse from crown to cock exposed, sweat-slicked and _shining_.

You’re jointed: a puppet feeling the pull of every string, desperately trying to resist the urge to jump on him, rip your pants off so you can fuck him into the mattress. You wiggle in place, let your hand drift between your legs to settle the ache.

Asmo notices. Of course he does, he’s so intimately attuned to the nuances of your arousal. He darts forwards too fast, grabs you underneath your arms and lifts you so he can press a bruising kiss to your lips. His control is evasive today.

Eyes are flaring, pink to red, a pulsing, dangerous light. He _wants_. You can almost see it, thick and viscous, tendrils curling out to touch. His hand is quick, curling beneath a fabric rose to graze the pebbled nipple through your shirt. Moving when you gasp, reaching towards your waistband, so attentive to your needs—

“Sorry, Asmo, not today.”

The demon snaps backwards, arms crossed behind his back. Held in place by invisible bonds. Solomon is smiling down at him, the mischevious curl of his lips at odds with the gentle look in his eyes. You collapse back to your knees, feel the trembling treachery of an itch almost scratched.

“You’re _full_ of fun new tricks today, aren’t you?”

Solomon chuckles. “Yes, I thought you’d like that one.”

The sorcerer is crawling up the bed, the soft bounce of his weight obvious in the demon’s legs as you slide his pants fully off. Reach down and slip his shoes away, tossed to some far corner. Shift upright.

He’s staring down at you, Solomon at his back, pressing gentle kisses along the line of his throat. You meet his garnet eyes. Run your hands up his thighs, caress the petal-soft flesh and sigh, cheek pressed at the line of his pelvis. Your breath ghosts across his crotch and you see the slight jump; proof of your ministrations. “Be a selfish lover, today,” you say, reaching over to drag a light fingertip teasingly up his length. “We’re yours to have and take.”

“Be careful making promises like that love,” he manages, something like a purr vibrating through his chest. “I’ll be holding you responsible.”

“Good.” Solomon nips at his ear, presses one palm flat over his shoulder, down over one pectoral. He tweaks one nipple between forefinger and thumb and you feel him start beneath you. You roll over, press your mouth at the base of his cock and look up at him from beneath your lashes. “Let us _adore_ you.”

“ _Worship_ you,” Solomon murmurs, and you can see the way the sacrilege pierces him, takes root in someplace deep and vulnerable and makes him _shake_ with it. You catch the sorcerer’s eye, your mouth a soft and startled ‘o’.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the smooth line of a wing. Asmodeus arches back and you crowd into his space, hands roaming, exploring, mapping every heavenly centimetre of him. Trail higher, higher, flick a tongue against a nipple and watch him squirm.

“Your wish is our command,” you say sweetly, plying kisses against the sensitive skin. He moans as you reach down towards his urgent, neglected erection.

“If there’s anything you want, you only have to ask,” Solomon contributes. He scrapes his teeth against him, fingers petting at the delicate membrane.

Asmodeus takes in a sharp breath. Opens his legs wider as you pump along his shaft. “Tell me,” he starts, voice breaking. You slow just enough, crawl slightly backwards so you can reach him with your mouth. “Tell me . . .”

He can’t articulate it. Won’t. You kiss his glans, lap at the leaking moisture.

That’s fine. You can make your guesses. “You’re the most beautiful being I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“You’re flawless. Perfect,” Solomon murmurs, picking up your thread. “We’re lucky just to know you.”

“We’ve been blessed beyond our lifetimes just to see you. Like this.”

The two of you heap praises on him and he shudders under the weight of them. Pleasure like a blanket, laying itself over the exposed lines of his shoulders, his torso, his enticing, twitching cock. You move, ready to take him in your mouth again, when Solomon hooks his arms beneath the demon’s knees. Spreads him wide, lifting to reveal the puckered circle of his ass.

You look up, catch his cloudless, expectant gaze, still pressed slightly back behind four wings. Pop your own finger into your mouth and gather spit. You slide out, let your teeth graze your skin as your demon watches. Panting with anticipation.

You seal his breaths, kiss him as you circle your fingertip against the puckered skin. He gasps at the first probe into his entrance, the gentle way you work yourself inside. Solomon calls your name, low, and you feel something cold and plastic nudging against your hand. You pull out, feel the icy drop of lube as it drips down your fingers.

You break off, move to kiss down towards his pulse as the sorcerer kisses up the other side. Keep him neatly trapped between you. The circling patterns of your free hand dip and slow, move teasingly closer towards his cock as your fingers curl back inside him. He’s _trembling_ , fogged with the intensity of your attentions.

You rub your free thumb over his head and he jerks at your touch. “ _Darlings_ ,” he whines. You smile into his neck, release him and trail back up. Take your own thumb in your mouth and _suck_ as he leans heavily back against Solomon’s chest, eyes half-lidded. He’s so _beautiful_. You swirl the taste of him inside your mouth and try to ignore the desperate, empty _ache_ between your legs as you continue to pump into him. “I thought this was supposed to be a present?”

“Don’t you trust us?” you ask, carding your fingers through his hair. You circle the base of his horn and follow the keratinous sheath upwards, pass lightly over his ridges and he moans.

Solomon hums, mirrors your movements. “We’ll take care of you.”

He’s nearly sucking you into him, your fingers passing with no resistance. You curl, press against the bump of his prostate and enjoy the way his cock jumps in response.

“Let him go,” you say, pulling out. Solomon nips lightly at the join between shoulder and neck, making no obvious response, but Asmo’s arms drop, shaking. They move immediately to you, fist into your hair so he can drag you forwards for a kiss. It’s aggressive, _starved_. He unwinds one hand and moves to cup lightly above your head, draws back and nearly whimpers with disappointment. 

“Aw, they’re not real.”

You laugh, draw him against you with one hand while Solomon shifts him higher. Take his still-exposed erection and line it up with the demon’s entrance.

“Maybe next time,” he says.

Asmo presses down, delighted by the promise of it. “Ooh, can I expect a repeat performance?” Gasps at the stretch as the sorcerer lowers him carefully to his base. You watch, focus dwindling to the contact; Solomon disappearing inside of him. He caresses the line of your neck, slides down over your back as he adjusts, giving up the illusion of your horns.

You take his left arm, litter kisses against the hearts scored in his skin. He hums, a sweet refrain that sounds almost familiar. Takes your arm so he can duplicate the sentiment.

Solomon moves beneath him, bounces him lightly on his lap. Asmodeus drops his head backwards, careful to keep his horns from spearing his lover. His spine arches, an impossibly flexible curve to keep his wings from being crushed.

You run your palms lightly over his sides, lick at the nipples pushed prominently in your face. He shudders, warming under your touch and you flick one, gently, grin as he moans. You lower, hover over his bouncing cock. Wait with mouth open until Solomon reaches the apex of his thrust so you can gauge your capacity.

You let the sorcerer do the work for both of you, the slide of your demon slick inside your mouth. Your lips keep perfect suction, tongue laving against his shaft. He’s twitching, _adorable_ , hands holding your head to keep you carefully, tenderly in place.

You’re _burning_. Lighting up, inside out, desire making a mess inside your pants. You press one hand against the seam, unwilling to fumble with the belt before you can apply friction to your arousal. The fabric is damp to the touch, too slippery a movement to alleviate any of your need.

Solomon’s rhythm is falling apart. He’s bucking wildly now, Asmo pressing erratically into your mouth. You double-down, increase your suction, swallow as he shoots down your throat.

It’s hot and thick, just on the side of not-quite-bitter. You lean back and open your mouth, let him see the white strands coating the inside. Then reach over, force Solomon to meet you so your demon is crushed between your chests. And kiss him, open and generous, let him share lust’s distinctive taste.

Asmodeus whines at your ears; he so hates to be left out. You release the sorcerer from your kiss, lick your lips, slow and thorough. Let Asmo pull you greedy against his mouth, searching, sampling. Solomon has gone back to lavishing attention on his wings; kisses, nibbles, soft points of suction.

“You _really_ like my wings,” he observes, when he finally lets you breathe.

“I do,” Solomon agrees easily. “They’re beautiful. Soft and sharp all at once — really a marvel of form.”

“Careful,” you warn lightly. “Or he’s going to steal them and mount them on his wall.”

“Why do that when I can enjoy the whole thing?”

You roll your eyes, lean up so you can kiss his horns. Asmo hums under your dual attention, flushed and pleased. “And are those the parts _you’d_ steal?”

You groan, nuzzle in against the base where bone and skull meet.“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m about to parrot Solomon. But I only love them so much because they’re _yours_. I only want them if you’re attached.”

He laughs, delighted, wraps his arms loosely around your waist.“Really? Because I have to say, they look lovely on _you_ , darling.”

There’s a promise in his voice, simmering under his words. And you’re well aware that he’s still infernally hard despite just coming into your mouth. You press against him, the roses on your shirt probably suffocating. “Do you like them? I know you said you’d love the opportunity to fuck yourself, but that was a little outside our realm of ability to deliver.”

“Aw, you remembered.” His palms are dipping, moving to cup your ass through copied pants. “But don’t be disappointed. This might be even _better_.”

You shudder, your untended desire making every touch pierce, traveling through your skin like guided arrows. At this rate he’ll be able to take you apart with nothing more than the light press of his hands, the ghost of his breath. You’re so, _so_ sensitive.

Solomon speaks up from behind, hands circling carefully at the base of Asmo’s wings. “We could be your back-up dancers.”

“I always thought I’d make a fantastic idol,” he muses, moving over the tops of your thighs. His thumbs rest just inside, barely adjacent your most urgent parts. His eyes flick to yours, shimmering rubellite. Your pants are _soaked_ , already damping his fingers.

“I thought we were acolytes,” you whimper. You jerk your hips, just once, before you manage control. Take your bottom lip between your teeth and try not to bite so hard you break skin.

“Oh? And, love, what’s your religion?”

“ _You_.”

The flash is the only warning you receive. His eyes darken, almost black, and then he’s nearly tackled you, pinned you to the bed. You gasp, your breath leaving you all at once. He’s on you before you can re-orient yourself, eager and devouring. One thumb rubs against the fabric of your seam and you nearly cry into his mouth.

Solomon huffs a laugh, flops to his side so he can watch the two of you as he gets cleaned up. He’ll be ready again shortly — you watched him take _all. Those. Potions_ — but the break can only help. You feel him, distantly, as he cards your hair helpfully out of your face. 

Asmodeus rears back, still caging you in, shirt dangling open over you. “While I do love that we’re matching, I’m afraid it’s not enough.”

You reach down, fumbling, fingers slipping on your belt. You’re clumsy with arousal. There’s a flash of flowery smoke and then his remaining clothes are _gone_.

You take in a sharp breath, enraptured. “That’s a nice trick.”

“I want to feel you _more_.” He leans over you, nearly swats your hand away as he undoes your belt, your pants. Slides them off, carefully _carefully_ , folds the dirtied garment and places it somewhere out of the way. Solomon reaches over, takes your idle hands and drops sanitizer; an icy shock. You rub, half distracted as your demon works your shoes adoringly off.

You watch with impatience, tinged with barely suppressed bewilderment. “ _Asmo!_ ”

He _winks_ at you. “Sorry darling, but we have to take good care of these. They’ll be getting _a lot_ of use.”

Heat suffuses you, starts from your crown and travels downwards in a flash. That’s a . . . staggering promise.

He works his way back between your legs, eyes tracking up your exposed flesh, to the satin edge of his reproduced shirt, his cuffs, his tattoos, his _horns_ , his _wings_. Nearly quivers with the force of his desire. You’re reminded suddenly, impossibly, of a different demon because right now he looks like he wants to _eat. You. Up._

His hands come down, work carefully at the scorpion attached at your collar, at the buttons on your shirt. Moving slowly, deliberate, and if he doesn’t hurry up you’re going to _combust_ , the heat of him too near and still too far away. A countdown ticking slowly towards your own internal apocalypse. “ _Asmodeus_.”

You reach up, trail down his chest, feel the perfect, smooth planes of him and try to catch your footing. Take deep breaths which only serve to concentrate the scent of him; sweat and potpourri and the lingering notes of his cologne all mingled with the potent fog of arousal. You cross your legs, and he snaps to them, forces them as open as your shirt.

He leans over you, laves his tongue over one stiff nipple, kneads and massages the opposite breast. You arch up into his mouth, eager, take him in whatever ways he’ll give you. He’s smiling as he sucks, you can feel it, hyperaware of his every move. You take his horns, a firm grasp, pull him into you and he _mewls_.

“You’ve been waiting _so long_ , haven’t you darling?” he pants out against your skin.

You’re shaking now, nearly mad with need. He smiles at you, a damning covenant, then presses his erection directly at your entrance. The heat of him draws your focus, everything narrowed down to that one, blissful point.

 _Finally_.

You roll him over until he’s underneath you, settle yourself just above his cock and slip inside without preamble. He gasps at the sudden motion, the immediate acceptance. You’re drenched; no resistance as you take him to the hilt.

“We _said_ you’re in our care, today.” You post your hands beside his head, fold and kiss the tip of his horn. You’re already panting, walls clenching, _pulsing_ around him. It feels _so good_ to finally be _full_. “Your only job is to enjoy yourself.”

His hands go to your hips, clutching, _digging_. Your eyes trace the gorgeous structure of his face as you start, tenderly, to move. The high cheekbones, blushed with the smudged remains of your lipstick, the dark focus of his eyes. The sharp, sculpted angle of his jaw, an almost calculated perfection. Even his hair, wild now, a mess that still remains perfectly glossy, half the strands slicked to skin.

He makes you breathless.

You’ve taken a frantic rhythm, the edge of your desire too crucial to stoke slowly. You’re staring at him, eyes half-lidded and focused, rapacious. You _want_. Every nuance of his expression, every single, fleeting change. He’s giving them to you, now, _freely_ , and you’ll be damned if you won’t take them with both hands.

He’s flushing, meeting your stare, his celestial face twisted with the rapture of your sin. He has you barreling into freefall, surrounded by a studded sky, falling upwards into the night. A fallen angel who can still direct you to heaven.

You crest into ecstasy too quickly, _shake_ apart above him, come on his cock and drench the sheets underneath. Nonsense is falling from your lips, frantic praise that could be prayer, worship, sin. 

Asmo rears, fingers hard enough to bruise, fucking up into you savagely. Tears are pouring down your cheeks but you won’t close your eyes you want to _see_ him. His hair is falling into his face, frantic, flushed and _chasing_. Staring just over your shoulder at the gentle flapping of your wings, what you imagine must be direct reflection of his own.

The solid _slap!_ of skin is so encompassing it could be your pulse. 

He’s going to take you again, _again_ , and you’ve been waiting so long you haven’t even recovered from the force of your first orgasm. He’s so hot inside you, _too hot_ , you’re going to melt on his cock and then—

Your vision fully blanks out. You’re convulsing on top of him, barely able to feel his thick spurts as he pulses inside you. You drop your forehead to his shoulder, dazed, and Solomon leans over, presses a kiss at your crown, reaches above you to adhere to the demon.

“Weren’t _you_ supposed to be taking care of _him_?” he admonishes.

You drop your arm in his direction, a listless slap. “Maybe I could have if _someone_ hadn’t been edging me all night.”

He laughs, lights another kiss at Asmo’s jaw. “Happy birthday.”

“We’re not done _already_ , are we?”

“It’s midnight.”

Your gaze flicks to the ornate wall clock. So it is. You arch into him, lips curled into a shameless smile, drape your arms lazily over his shoulders so you can play with the hair at his nape. “Happy Birthday.”

“Are you sure you want to keep going?” Solomon starts, teasing. “We _do_ have class tomorrow.”

You glide up, unable to keep yourself from his horns. “And what about your beauty sleep?”

He pouts at the both of you. “Well I can’t stop _now_.”

He’s startled as the two of you lean in tandem, press sweet kisses to the corner of his down-turned mouth. “Good.”

You move gingerly off, helped by Solomon’s warm arms around your waist. Let your weight go so that he sprawls backwards underneath you. Then turn against his chest, crushing the details of his shirt.

And lick the underside of his jaw. “Thanks.”

You wiggle out of his grasp before he can retaliate, press him down into the mattress from one side and give Asmo your most winning grin. “Strip him.”

“Oooh, with _pleasure_.”

He doesn’t struggle, only lets his hands wander to your naked sides, assaults you with feather-light touches that _tickle_. You’re squirming above him, every nerve still extra-sensitive, already dripping down your leg. He drags a finger lightly up the inside of your thigh, gathers arousal and dripping cum and _licks_. Closes his eyes against the taste and shudders as Asmo dives between his legs.

“I can do that,” you offer, and your demon shakes his head, curls pink against the white of Solomon’s bare thigh.

“You can’t have _all_ the fun.”

“No. That’s reserved for _you_.” You laugh, reach down and tweak the buttons on the prone sorcerer’s shirt. Solomon gasps, distracted, catches you by the wrist and holds you. “What are you doing?”

You pull your arm up so you can kiss the back of his fingers. “Let’s try to minimize the mess, if we can.”

It’s still a fumbling moment with the charm, flinging it dramatically to the side so you can reach the golden hearts. Frankly impractical shapes, for buttons, but you can certainly appreciate the _aesthetic_. You pop them open, one by one, run your hands along the bands and spread them, wide.

Solomon is arching against Asmo’s treatments, breathing uneven. His skin is trending pink, obvious beneath the starlight glimmer of his hair and you can’t help yourself. You bend, press a gentle kiss against his cheek. He turns into you, takes you by the jaw and you open, steal his stuttered breaths.

Asmo draws back, reaches up and _pinches_ one exposed nipple. Solomon _curses_ and you feel the static burn of ambient magic, the word suddenly dangerous with significance.

“Ooh, how interesting!”

The lust demon laughs, lines himself up at Solomon’s eager hole. You thread your fingers through the sorcerer’s, lean over, watching, as Asmo slides himself inside. Waits, careful, as he adjusts.

And then he’s moving, slick and slow. There’s a pressure against your hand and Solomon pulls you, forces you to catch yourself with your free hand so he doesn’t suffocate against your chest. “If you can’t behave, I’m going to sit on you.”

The curve of his lip is sharp. “Is that a promise?”

The noise that looses from your throat is embarrassingly keen. You slide your shirt fully off, the mirage of your wings no real obstacle, conscious of the hazard the trailing tails present. Then you settle over him, kneeling just above his face right as he moans. “ _Asmodeus!_ I—” Drop, interrupting his pleading thought.

The demon catches your eye, nearly _radiating_ delight, watching as you find your balance. He’s holding Solomon wide, legs spread around his hips, and you can almost see the hot length of him, tucked into the sorcerer, appearing and disappearing in the world’s most mesmerizing magic trick.

Solomon licks into you. You arch, startled, and Asmodeus starts to _move_ in earnest, a rhythmic, sensual drag that has Solomon panting into you. You lift off, slightly, mildly wary of asphyxiation when he grips your thighs and _holds_ you. _Tight._

You nearly fall forwards, barely preventing your tumble with palms slapped hard against the mattress, head bowed too close to Asmo’s shifting torso. You gulp, a strangled lungful of air, tip up and see the demon watching you with something approaching greed. _Possessiveness_.

You sink upwards, drawn into his gravity, take his horns between your hands and kiss him like it’s the only way to breathe. He sets the pace, inhuman, merciless, _devoted_. Tongue parting, tasting, _taking_. Strangely at odds with the caring metre of his thrusts.

When he breaks away, allows you enough space to re-learn your name, his eyes are bright. Vivid as fever and twice as scorching. Something cracks along the surface and he ducks, presses his forehead into your shoulder and allows your trembling fingers to caress the ridged edges of his horns.

“You only have to mean it for today,” he whispers, half-mumbled into your skin.

“What?”

“Tell me you love me.”

You’re startled, look clear into his eyes and see the heady arousal there supplanted by something else. Something more raw, more primal, more _necessary_. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you.”

You say it too immediately, wince internally and hope he didn’t notice. The speed makes you feel insincere. He’s still looking at you, searching, and you take your chance. Cup his velvet cheeks and drag him close to you, try to feed everything into your touch. Your thoughts are muddled, Solomon working with lazy, splintered focus at your wet and dripping core. “You are the b-b-brightest, _ah_ , most g-generous being I’ve _eeeeeever_ known.” Take a breath, try to make sense of your words. “My l-light in the d- _ah_ -darkness.”

You lean upwards, shower kisses along his jaw, skirt brief over his lips. “When you’re around, I _Ah!_ don’t miss the sun.”

He gasps, sharp, you can feel the shudder as you nose along his pulse. You’ve interrupted the metronome of his pace; an intrusive rest in this measure. You pull back so you can look him in the eye, watch as his fire is fed by wonder. “ _I love you_."

Something in his face is changing, _melting_ , the spotlights of his eyes shifting firefly soft. “I love you, _ah_ , I love you, _mmm_ —”

His slowing motion has allowed Solomon a convenient opportunity, and he laves attention against you, hands still clamping on your thighs. You can feel the suckling pressure against your clit, the dedicated curl of his tongue. You whimper, jerking against his mouth. The declaration falls from your lips, instinctive repetition shredded by the pressing spiral of your arousal.

“I love you I loveyouI _love_ —”

Asmo drops one leg, closes your sentence with final punctuation; his lips against your own. Cradles the back of your head carefully as he swallows your devotion.

You’re nebulous between them, your boundaries elastic as they light you from both ends. A firework, burning out too quick. Asmo keeps you easily upright as you threaten collapse, the strength in your arms, your legs, dissolving. Lets you down gently, slumping over the sorcerer’s stiff, leaking cock.

Solomon is still slurping, sucking, making _obscene_ noises and you can’t stop your flow. You slap weakly at his thighs, _begging_ , desperate as he takes you beyond any recorded boundary of sensation. “Let me off before you drown!”

A laugh startles out of them both, and you finally manage to break his grip, throw yourself to the side, one leg still draped across his chest. Flop dramatically backwards as you try to centre back within your body.

“Are you alright, love?” Asmodeus asks, the edge of a knowing giggle hidden in his concern. His head is tipped back, eyes blissfully closed. A full body flush pinks against alabaster skin, _divine_.

“Amazing,” you mumble, shifting to your side. You drag yourself along the bed, nearly an army crawl as you maneuver to his bedside table. Dangle over the edge so you can reach a lower drawer. The fog of your euphoria is lifting, and you remember preparing a number of items to help even your mortal abilities against the avatar of lust.

You can hear Solomon panting behind you, can imagine the furrow between his brows, the obvious markers as he tries to school his reactions. The absurd mess of his hair, dragging against the stained duvet. You turn, object in hand. Sit still and silent just to admire the artistic portrait of them, the animated paragon of concupiscence, faces a study in transcendental rapture.

You want to keep them like this: a picture.

A few more seconds before you stand on still-shaky legs, slide behind the demon. Hold the toy in one hand so you can run your fingers over the soft line of his wings. They flutter in your hands, _responsive_ , and _oh_ , you can see why the sorcerer likes to play with them so much. You find the empty patch of skin between the appendages, a small square of spine. Fasten your mouth over it and _suck_. He jerks, you can hear the sharp intake as he slides slightly too quickly into the sorcerer, feel the brief breeze as his wings flex by your head.

 _Gorgeous_.

You shower kisses, following the straight path down his back, reach the dimple just above his ass. His cheeks fill the wells of both your palms and you cup, _press_ , a light shadow of pressure as your fingers dip low, lower. Circle the lubed crown of the vibrating egg teasingly against his hole.

He starts and you slide it in, press it direct against his prostate. He’s shaking, gasping, the careful system of his thrusts decomposing into chaos. You pull back, circle around to Solomon’s side, card your fingers through his hair as he pumps along his own length. Chasing his own release against the demon’s disorder, unmistakable in the ruin of his expression.

You know he was once an angel, must once have been a part of a divine and classical choir. He’s sung for you, once, twice: easy lilting melodies and popular music that make you certain you will never return the favour. But _these_ noises that he’s making now. Ragged and imperfect and wretched with pleasure. They’re your _favourites_.

You lean down, ghost your lips against the sorcerer’s ear. “Say it.”

He doesn’t ask, only blinks up at you, faint and unclear.

“Tell him you love him.”

You’re similar, like this. He says it immediately, without hesitation. But he makes the words sound easy and obvious; self-evident truth. “Asmodeus, I love you.”

You can see it, something snapping inside of him, pulled too taut. Asmodeus is unravelling, moaning, spilling inside as you trail your hand down, cover his fingers with your own. “Asmo, _we love you_.”

He huffs, still flushed, continues in long, lazy thrusts as Solomon strokes, pumps himself to completion. You withdraw back to the sorcerer's side, light a kiss against the corner of his mouth and then he follows, a great unfurling release as he splashes against his bare chest.

You lick a stripe, keep the taste on your tongue as you hold your demon’s gaze. His cock is twitching, still stiff three orgasms not withstanding.

You won’t be done for a long time, yet.

* * *

You groan, stretching your arms overhead after you pull the top duvet cover off the bed — it’s too damp now to sleep on, stained and looking like the detritus of a crime scene.

You’ve taken one of Solomon’s ‘stamina potions’ (which, judging by the taste, is just a five-hour energy poured into a pretentious bottle with a stopper). So you can move, but the threat of your imminent death has been compounded.

Your boys are draped decadently on the floor, chests heaving, backs to the cool, fogging marble. You stride slowly to the windows, pull back the curtains to encourage the cool night air. Then circle back to them, resist the urge to drop in a heap beside their flushed bodies. Try to herd them instead towards the bathroom.

“Please!” you beg, hands on your thighs. “I _physically_ can’t carry you.”

Solomon waves a hand idly. “That’s fine. I’m not opposed to dying on gold-veined marble.”

“Well I am!” Asmodeus huffs, struggling to his elbows. He pokes Solomon in the side. _Hard_. “I don’t want any corpses staining my floors. Get up!”

“Asmo _help_ me,” you plead, hooking one arm under Solomon. He brushes you off easily, skin still slick with sweat.

“Stop it, I’ll go on my own.”

It’s almost a three-minute walk to a tub less than twenty steps away. The two of them lower themselves, sore, into the ceramic as you pull out the attached shower head. You don’t bother to check the temperature before you turn it on, directly over Solomon.

Drops of icy water sting as they bounce off on your bare skin, and he doesn’t even flinch. Alarmed, you lean down to his face but . . . still breathing. You adjust the flow, softer, slightly warmer, and pass it gentle over his overheated skin.

You rinse the two of them off, thoroughly, step into the tub and wash yourself. Then arrange them, seated on the bench set into the edge, and turn on the taps.

The water rises unnaturally fast; warm and scented with the assortment of floral oils Asmo had nudged in your direction. You let the heat seep into your muscle, work the tenderness out of your locking joints. Solomon drifts beside you and you cradle his head with one hand, press him listless to your shoulder. Asmo turns into you, traps your arm against his chest and lets his leg drift over your lap.

“My light in the dark,” you say softly, revisiting an earlier endearment. He flushes pleasantly beneath you. You scratch at his crown and he nuzzles under your touch. “Do you want me to wash your hair?”

“That’d be _amazing_ , darling.” He perks up, instant, and you direct him to drop between your legs. Reach blindly backwards and grab the first bottle that looks correct.

“Can you wear them again tomorrow?”

"What-" You laugh, massage shampoo into his hair. “Asmo, those clothes are _disgusting_. They’ll need a thorough deep-cleaning first.”

“Well can’t you have them charmed to never get dirty?” You can _hear_ the pout in his voice.

“Now _there’s_ an idea,” Solomon says sleepily from your shoulder.

You frown. “I’m sorry! I didn’t think of it, okay? Next time.”

“Anyway — speaking entirely for myself, of course — doing this two days in a row would unequivocally kill me.”

You sigh, leaning Asmodeus backwards so you can rinse his hair out. “Honestly, I don’t know that I would survive, either.”

A low, sad sound rises out of the demon’s throat: a disappointed whine.

You lift him up, pull him back against your chest, caged between your legs. Drop a kiss to still-wet locks. “Don’t be like that. We can still have sex, just . . . not as much.”

Solomon laughs. “Speak for yourself, maybe.” He pauses, outlines shaky, indecipherable shapes on your arm. “Do you think Lucifer would accept ‘being fucked to within an inch of our lives’ as adequate excuse to miss class tomorrow?”

You sigh. “Maybe if _he_ was the one to do it.”

Asmodeus wails, sinking dramatically until he’s submerged up to his chin. “I can’t believe it’s already five in the morning! I can’t go outside looking like this, I’ll have bags under my eyes!”

You frown, taking his face in your hands, cheeks squished between your palms. You scrutinize him thoroughly. “You look absolutely as flawless as you always do.”

“Are you _sure_ you aren’t an incubus?” Solomon murmurs. You shift your shoulder to keep his face from dipping below the water.

“It _does_ feel like you sucked the life right out of us.”

Asmo gasps, unable to hide the preening edge of satisfaction from his scandalized expression. “Of course not! I would _never_. But I _am_ the demon of lust, you know. I can’t help it if it sustains me.”

“Good,” you say, dropping back to rest your head against the edge of the tub. “Because I don’t think I’ll be able to stand again tonight. You’re going to have to carry us to bed.”

“I’ll go on my own,” Solomon mumbles unconvincingly, the words half-muffled in your skin.

Asmo sighs, lips pursed. “ _Fiiiiine_. Making me do all this physical labour on my _birthday_.”

You smile, reach out and scratch lightly at his hair. “If you don’t think it’s worth it, just let me know. We won’t do this again.”

“. . . Well. I didn’t say _that_.”


End file.
